Morning arrived on tiptoe rosy, feather-light, full of the deceptive hush that settles over a city before it remembers its worries. I'd watched the sky seep from ink to pearl with my siblings snoring against my shoulders, pastry crumbs dotting the map of Stonepass. I should have crawled back to bed. Instead, I eased Aeris and Arion onto a sofa, tucked the blanket around them, whispered a promise of pancakes, and slipped out into corridors that smelled faintly of candle wax and ambition.
A palace at dawn is a peculiar creature: half-asleep tapestries rustle more softly, marble floors echo like empty seashells, and every footstep feels like trespass. I padded past a suit of armor that saluted me out of habit and a disgruntled ghost librarian still muttering about "midnight pastry smuggling." Somewhere in the west wing, a page hummed revolutionary marching tunes while polishing silver evidence that Mara's cultural diplomacy had seeped deeper than expected.
